


Godspeed

by Angelicasdean



Series: Walk the path of a sinner, meet the dues of the devil. [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur is a mess, Difficult Decisions, Dutch Has A Plan, Fear of Death, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Train Robberies, as usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-07-23 20:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20014264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: PART FOURHe found himself in the snow-covered mountains, his eye peering through the scope as he watches John and Bill set up the trap in the valley underneath. Javier and Mac stand beside him, each with their binoculars out, scouting different directions in case of any unaccounted for lawmen show up.





	Godspeed

It takes exactly one bullet for things to go from calm, to disastrous. It’s the first lesson Dutch had ever taught him, and Arthur had witnessed its truth first-hand several times.

This is another time to add to the list.

A simple train robbery. That’s what it’s supposed to be, a train passing from Big Valley to Oregon. Supposedly filled with money to help fund Seattle after the fire that had mostly destroyed it.

Arthur had voiced his concerns, the train is being sent by the government, there would surely be enforcements since they’d still have to pass through The Grizzlies, which was as wild as can be at the moment.

But Hosea and Dutch had not faltered, insisting that the funds will set them straight on the path down to California, where Arthur can finally put Isaac through proper schooling, where they’d buy a ranch or a farm and live like normal people, or as normal as can be. And Arthur being… well, himself, he gave in to their judgment. He can’t lie, the thought of finally abandoning the life of an Outlaw unnerved him and made him jittery.

Being an Outlaw is all he knew, all he was raised to be, whether by his father or Dutch and Hosea. But, it also sounded… nice, like a real opportunity, somewhere they can live free and wild but safe and grounded.

And so he found himself in the snow-covered mountains, his eye peering through the scope as he watches John and Bill set up the trap in the valley underneath. Javier and Mac stand beside him, each with their binoculars out, scouting different directions in case of any unaccounted for lawmen show up.

The snow has frozen Arthur’s fingers, made his cheeks and nose flush red, hidden under a thin layer of stubble. His breathing occasionally fogs up the scope, and he wipes away an imaginary layer of snow from the stock he’d fitted.

The train is due any minute now, and Arthur knows it had been mere seconds since he last looked at what John and Bill were doing, but he glances again, moving the scope along the railway before returning it to where Bill is crouched over a bundle of dynamite sticks.

He watches, ignores the snow that has melted along the collar of his coat and wet his neck, ignores the numbness of his knees as the cold settles in where there’s a patch of wet cloth from where he’s kneeling.

Minutes.

Stakeouts always seemed to be the most time consuming and anxiety-inducing jobs. Arthur was never well equipped with patience nor enough certainty to last through it without feeling like he’d rather shoot his brain clear out of his skull.

It doesn’t help that his two companions are silent and tense, whether from the harsh weather or the high stakes he does not know nor has enough energy to ask. The wind blows over them and Javier kneels beside him, tapping his shoulder and pointing to the opposite cliff.

“Think we got company,” He says and Arthur pulls his scope up again, scanning where Javier had pointed. True to his words, Arthur spots horses trailing along the edge of the cliff. Men had dismounted and seemed to rest by the ledge.

Arthur’s trigger finger twitches dangerously as he hovers over a man, the clearest of the bunch. “Bill and John?” Arthur asks and Javier shifts, leaning down to scan the ground underneath.

“They seem set up, they’re heading to their position,” Javier answers and Arthur flexes his jaw, stretches one arm and feeling his elbow crack as he settles it back on the forearm of his rifle.

The man had knelt, similar to how Arthur is now, and pulled out his own rifle.

“That’s Trouble, alright, “ Arthur sighs, “I think we’ve got ourselves Outlaws as ambitious as us,” He sighs, settling his finger over the trigger, “Where are the rest?” he asks.

“Ronny and Mac are in position, I think I see Dutch too, they’re waiting for our sign,” Davey answers, and Arthur pulls away from the scope, “What do we do?” Davey asks as he unshoulders his rifle.

“I can’t tell how many there are, but they’ve got a good look on John and Bill, if we start firing, it’ll probably end with one of them either dead or hurt,” Arthur sighs, pressing the meat of his palm against his eyes.

Who would’ve guessed, the one job Dutch trusted Arthur to lead; ends up with a rival gang having a good upper hand on them. Or at least a part of them.

“I see three men,” Javier informs as Arthur shakes his head, snow rolling down from his hair.

“Four, there’s one on the far left,” Davey corrects. Arthur plasters his eye against his scope again, counting the men. Three on the cliff edge, one on the left like Davey said, and though hard to see, two other men stood further down the side of the cliff, close to where it slopes down and connects to the valley the train will pass through.

“Six,” Arthur says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. From their position, if he, Davey and Javier start shooting, then they might be able to take down the most prevalent threat. Then, if they were smart, Bill and John would retreat somewhere safer. Arthur doubts that they won’t immediately start blind firing, neither are the sharpest of the bunch and their over extorted pride wouldn’t let them retreat, anyway.

“I can go send a warning to Mac and Ronny,” Davey suggests as Arthur watches one of the rival men look behind him, “Then we can have enough suppressing fire to cover Bill and Marston,”

Silence, that’s the answer to Davey’s suggestion. Arthur worries his tongue across the inside of his cheek.

“What if we shoot them,” Javier counters, “If we do, won’t the others will have picked up that there’s an enemy around,”

“They wouldn’t know where, I can barely see them from, and they’re further away by miles,” Arthur shakes his head again. Miles is an exaggeration, but they’re definitely further away, and none of them carry scoped weapons, “The train will be around any minute now, so we can’t risk sending you, Dave,” Arthur sighs pushing himself to his feet and dusting the snow off his knees.

“So what do we do?” Javier asks and Arthur raises his rifle, scans the three men, freezing when one of them aims at him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, barely having time to pull back the safety on his gun before bullet whizzes by, followed by the booming sound of it being fired. Instinctively, Arthur dives to the ground, his two companions sharing the same reaction.

For a moment, Arthur is blinded by the sheer coldness the seeps through his body, the snow digging against the forearm where it had bypassed his sleeve, freezing his side where his coat had opened. The sound of bullets cracking the wind pulls him to reality, and he grabs his rifle off the ground. It takes a second for him to pull his rifle up to his shoulder, another to aim, and a final one to pull the trigger. The man falls, and Arthur watches through the scope.

Javier and Davey shoot silently, and Arthur spares a moment to look down to where Bill and John are, watching as they move towards a boulder protruding the ground.

A bullet lands near his ankle, kicking up snow and Arthur aims up again, holding his breath as he follows one of the men on the other side with his scope, waits till the moment is right and pulls the trigger. He falls. Arthur pulls back the bolt handle, hears the click of a bullet settling in and breathes out.

Through the sound of trading gunshots, Arthur hears the familiar sound of a train whistle, watches as the men on the opposite side mount their horses and start their decent and to Arthur’s pure terror, new men start to appear. Quick thinking was never Arthur’s strong suits, and so he didn’t get enough time to doubt himself as he whistles for Cleo and mounts her, feet slipping out of his stirrups for a moment before Cleo charges down the mountain, familiar with the routine.

Davey and Javier follow, and the gunshots become less frequent as they change their attention to the train, one side gunning for it, the other riding to their friends. John and Bill have ceased fire, both looking grateful as the three men ride close.

“Come on, we need to get to Dutch!” Arthur shouts over the sound of the train squealing to a stop, the gunshots rise again and Arthur shoots blindly as he extends a hand to John, who clasps it and pulls himself onto Cleo’s flank. Davey shouts a warning, something unintelligible that passes through Arthur’s ear as helpful as the wind, a second later, Arthur finds himself unhearing and buried in the snow again, pushed off his horse by an invisible force. Cleo neighing in distress a few feet away then running towards the trees, and it takes a moment, but Arthur registers the fire and realizes someone had set the dynamite off. The moment of confusion washes away and Arthur pushes himself to his feet, scanning wildly to spot his fellow gang members.

Javier is further away, Bill beside him and both hiding behind a thick tree. Davey’s horse is running off up the mountain again, always had been skittish, Arthur doesn’t blame it. Davey himself is behind a rock that barely hides him. “Arthur!” John calls out, and Arthur whips around towards the voice, spotting John crouched behind a boulder. Gunshots become more frequent, Arthur flinches every time one hits the snow, the impact making snow fly up dramatically. They’re up against a dedicated group, and a good one too. Arthur can count on one hand the gangs running in this area, and he has a pretty solid guess of who they are.

Pushing through the hardening snow, Arthur drops beside John, the coldness in his bones replaced by the heat of adrenaline pulling at his muscles. “I can’t get a good shot on them,” John shouts, louder than necessary and Arthur peaks around the side of the boulder, cringing back when a bullet flies right over his nose, missing by a hair. He blows a breath, taking out his pistol and counting to five before pushing himself to his knees and aiming at one of the men shooting at Javier. The man falls with a scream and Arthur ducks back beside John.

A bullet ricocheted off the stone with a crack, John grabs Arthur’s sleeve and Arthur turns to him, following his gaze till he spots the four familiar horses running towards them.The Count blending almost indistinguishably into the snowy surroundings, beside him is Mac’s distinguishable Fox Trotter, spotted black and white. Behind them is Ronny, the fairly new addition to the gang, on his silver Kentucky saddler.

Arthur can’t decide whether he’s glad to see them, or worried about them charging head first into the gunfire. Dutch pulls the reins, and The Count snorts, shaking his head at the gunshots. Ronny’s mare, Lucille, high steps as Ronny shoots. Mac had ditched his stallion, Arthur watches it disappear into the snow and then turns his attention to where Mac climbs the train, ignoring the fire that had caught on some of the crates exposed to the previous explosion. He tackles one of the enemies, Arthur curses as he notices Davey abandon his cover to go help his brother.

“What the hell happened!?” Dutch shouts, sliding down his saddle and giving The Count a slap on the rear to get it going. Arthur reloads, fingers fumbling against the bullets, ignoring Dutch’s question and questioning glare.

“There’s more coming, Dios Mio!” Javier warns, John groans something under his breath, tugging at his jacket before turning to Dutch.

“We can’t take them, Dutch,” John says, “What the hell are we supposed to do?” he asks, but it sounds closer to a demand, the slight furrow of his brow and the constant scowl he carries around not helping. Dutch scans the area, eyes landing on Mac and Davey shooting wildly, back to back, on top of the train. Arthur had always admired their bravery but insulted their overabundance of stupidity.

“Dutch!” Ronny yells, “On your left!” he warns, pointing hurriedly, voice panicked. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spots the flashing of a mirror, and his eye expertly lands on the sniper still on the ledge above. The warning is still in his throat when it happens.

It takes exactly a second, Arthur’s eyes trailing down again and watching Ronny reload hastily, and before he can get it out, the first syllable on his tongue; he watches Ronny’s head tilt to the side, blood spewing out of his cheek. He’d caught a bullet.

Lucille rears, and Ronny falls into the snow. It seems too slow, the turn of events took less than a minute but as Arthur watches the blood surrounding Ronny turn from a milky white to a deep crimson-wine red, it feels like a century before Lucille’s hooves land in the snow again and she bolts, no rider to keep her in check.

“They shot Ronny!” John gasps loudly, eyes blown wide in awe. Arthur grits his teeth, “Holy shit, Dutch!”

“Sniper,” Arthur whispers, almost inaudible against the gunfire. Ronny remains unmoving, and it feels like Arthur can’t take his eyes off what’s poking out of the snow. Thankfully, his face is buried in the snow, and Arthur can’t see the extent of his injury.

And to think he started to warm up to him. Only seventeen, an all too kind but not too smart kid, raised in the wrong circumstances and discovered in a ditch half beaten to death. Arthur and John had found him, brought him to the Portland doctor. Didn’t have a cent on him, and no place to call home…

No time to think of that.

It seemed that the fight, where they had been almost toe to toe, neither side waning, had been turned on its head when Ronny died.

Javier shouts something in his native tongue, probably an insult, most definitely a swear. Mac gets tackled off the train to the other side where Arthur and the rest can’t see him. Davey gets surrounded by three men.

Their enemy had reinforcement, that’s what they lacked. Their camp is far away, and they brought most men, sure, but they could’ve still had more. At least they could’ve brought Mark and the Morris Brothers, but then camp would be left defenseless, and the area they had it set up was relatively dangerous, raided and swamped by the local militia.

It all seems fake, watching Davey fall to the snow with a man wrapped around him, wrestling each other. Watching Javier run like a headless chicken, dodging men and bullets alike. Mac had resurfaced but has another man chasing him, grabbing him by the neck as he tries to reach the platform of the train. Bill shoots from behind a tree, but lets out a frustrated scream when his gun clicks emptily. John keeps shouting, things that pass over Arthur’s head like the snow around them. Everything is more hectic than they should have been.

Things turn from bad, to horrendous.

Arthur ducks away from cover on a whim, kneeling beside Ronny’s corpse, shooting an enemy that had been hiding inside the train. He hears a muffled scream and turns to see three new rivals, two holding down each of John and Dutch, the third aiming straight at Arthur.

Arthur freezes pistol in hand beside his knee, now pointing at the ground as the group gains control over them. They seemed to have lost this fight, and idly Arthur wonders if he’ll live to see another.

The man hauls Dutch off the ground, forcing him to his knees and pressing his gun against Dutch’s chin. John struggles further, throwing wild punches and kicks, digging himself into the snow and trying to roll his opponent over. The third man walks closer to Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t look at him, instead, focusing on Dutch, who has a solemn scowl on his face.

Javier and Bill pause at the scene, John finally giving up, overpowered by the man above him and pulled to his knees by his hair. “Shouldn’t have tried to rob from us,” The man grins, grabbing Arthur’s arm harshly and twisting it behind his back, “You fought good, but not good enough,”

Arthur bites down on his lip, an effort to keep his mouth shut and not get a bullet dug into his skull. John, expectantly, does not share the sentiment.

“We’ll kill you all, you sons of bitches!” He hisses, struggling against the hold, pausing hesitantly when the gun clicks against his head. He still scowls, eyes training on Arthur in hope. Or desperation, he doesn’t really know.

“Who exactly do you think we are?” Arthur asks, groaning when the man twists his wrist rather harshly.

“We don’t think we know, bud,” He says, close to Arthur’s ears. Arthur finches away, and the man pats his shoulder with his free hand, “You’re the Van Der Linde’s, ain’t ya?” he chuckles, slinging his arm over Arthur’s shoulder, pointing at Dutch, “And that… He’s the jackpot,”

“If you say so,” Arthur mumbles, watching Dutch with careful eyes as he stays uncharacteristically quiet.

“I know so, Dutch Van Der Linde, right under our feet,” the group chuckles within themselves, “Come on, Ezra’s meeting us up ahead, round up the others,”

It clicks between the group pretty quickly, realization dawning on Dutch with more surprise than it had on Arthur. Ezra Xander. Notorious for Murder, Arson, Theft, Robbery, Mugging, Rape and any crime you can possibly think of. And that’s him alone. His gang is a bunch of no good, wild and deranged lunatic men. While Dutch had steered them away from needless killings, outside of dire situations that is, Xander had fuelled his into digging fear into any state he sets foot in.

From the few times Arthur had encountered the gang, they had been trigger-happy and bloodthirsty. No sympathy for anyone who proves to be a threat against them. They had, at one point, stole some of their horses. Silver Dollar, Cleo, and Poppy. Hosea’s, Arthur’s and John’s respectively.

And a long day had that been, filled with Hungover anger and fruitless tracking. Mac threatened most the town, Davey had a hard time even stepping out of his drunken state, didn’t help that the minute he woke up he grabbed the whiskey again and in the end, Hosea and Arthur left him in the bar in search of a clue.

Eventually, they found the horses, albeit they got them back with their fair share of bullets fired.

Arthur gets pulled up to his feet by the collar of his coat, and out of the corner of his eyes, he spots Javier and Bill getting pushed forward, their weapons confiscated and discarded in the snow. Slowly, Arthur’s hope dwindles down and he can’t help but think about how unworthy it would be if he died on a train heist, when he didn’t even get to step foot on the train.

He can’t help but think of how he’ll end up with a bullet in him, dead, because of some replaceable sum of money. He hadn’t even told Isaac where he’d gone, having left camp when he was still sleeping. He’d left a small note, bidding him a promise of return, but that’s about it and he might not even be able to keep up his promise.

He should’ve opposed the idea more, sure his concerns were about law, and they were so caught up about their patrols that they forgot the territory it’ll pass through.

He can’t die, if not for his own sake, then for his little boy. He’d already lost his mother to a gang attack, he won’t lose his father to another.

He needs to play this smart, they’re moving them towards their leader. If they can break their hold, if Arthur can get a vantage point, if he can even get a cover, then he could probably shoot Dutch and John’s capturers. It would give enough of a window, the element of surprise would give the other four enough time to take them down.

There’s still the sniper to account for.

The one that had taken Ronny down.

Ronny… he at least deserves to be buried. Another reason to live, another reason to fight.

Arthur's eyes the train, spotting the conductor lying dead a few feet away. The best chance they have is before they bypass the train, it’ll provide enough cover from the sniper and if everything hopefully goes according to plan, Arthur will be have enough time to take him down.

If everything goes according to plan. That’s the key. Nobody even knows of the plan in Arthur’s head, and he has no way of communicating it.

He has to wing it, he guesses. For now, he walks slowly, waiting for the moment where the entire group is hidden by the train. He turns to look at Mac and the other two, barely given enough of a glance to see the way Mac’s nose is bleeding and Davey looks two seconds from erupting into a fit.

That works for him, Davey is dangerous on a normal day, near untameable when he’s pissed off. It’s partly why no one bothers to stop him drinking since the last time someone tried to grab a bottle from his hand, they had ended up with a crooked nose and a pair of shiners.

Arthur takes his chances, stopping abruptly and taking advantage of the moment of confusion on his enemy’s part. He stomps on his foot with his heel, turning and kicking him between the legs, fast and efficient, the man groans and bends over. Arthur takes the chance to pull the pistol from his hand and quickly turning it towards the men holding John and Dutch. He quick fires, years of experience and skill guiding his hand with little time to aim on his own.

Two bullets, the two men fall each with a bullet near the back of their necks.

The man that had held Arthur tries to push him down, and partly he succeeds, Arthur falls onto his ass, the man following him in his decent and crushing the breath out of Arthur’s lungs.

The gunshots begin again, one landing close to Arthur’s face as he wrestles the man on top. The sniper, he thinks, he needs to move. The man above him lands a single good punch, throwing Arthur off and he closes his eyes a second too long, another lands, the man’s knuckles circling his eye.

He pulls himself together quickly after that, knowing that he had wasted enough time and if he waits a moment longer, then the sniper would have a lock on him. John shouts, Arthur brushes it off as a war scream, something John has grown to do a lot.

The man in top of him stops moving, eyes going wide, mouth hanging open and blood drips down onto Arthur’s cheek. He pushes him off with a disgusted heave, rolling over quickly and crawling towards the train. For the most part, they had regained control. John and Dutch hiding behind the driver's cab, Mac and Davey beside a wheel while Bill hides behind a wheel and Javier a few paces further.

They’re all accounted for, save for Ronny who’s still lying in the snow. “What do we do now?” John asks, pushing his hair behind his ear. It had started to get long again, if they get out of this, Arthur would try to get him to cut it. No time to think about that now.

“We need to get past that sniper,” Dutch sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“What if we sneak onto the train,” Arthur suggests, one hand coming up to touch his eye, wincing at the touch. Yup, that’s going to bruise alright. It’s a small price to pay, bruises are better than bullets, and they all seemed to get out mostly unscathed.

“Then what?” Dutch challenges, eyes darting over Arthur, behind him towards Mac and Davey; then to John, “We drive it?”

“That’s insane! We leave behind the Xanders and hand ourselves to the law?” John argues, turning between Dutch and Arthur with a bewildered look, “You’re not really thinking about it, are you?”

“Well, ain’t nobody got a good look on him, if we try to sneak away...we’ll get shot…” Arthur explains, turning to look at Ronny’s corpse, subconsciously drawing the comparison, “We should get him along, whatever we plan on doing,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands together. Why didn’t he wear his gloves again?

“You fancy catching a bullet in your noggin?” Dutch asks sarcastically, blowing a breath between his palms. 

“No, but I’ve got a lasso,” Arthur shoots back, pulling his satchel from under his coat. Dutch rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest further as Arthur sneaks closer to where Ronny is, swinging the lasso a couple of time before throwing it. It wraps around his foot, and Arthur sighs, slowly pulling him back. A few seconds of silence ensue as Arthur pulls Ronny’s corpse, the closer he drags the body, the clearer he sees the damage. He bites down on the inside of his cheek as Ronny’s face comes into full view. His face is bloodied beyond what Arthur expected, cheek and jaw missing on the left side. The bullet is still lodged under his cheekbone, shining under the bloody mess. He can’t say that his stomach hadn’t twisted horribly, the feeling getting worse as Arthur tears his gaze from the bullet up to where Ronny’s eyes are frozen open, dilated unevenly.

“Arthur!” Dutch hisses and Arthur realizes he had frozen, eyes on Ronny, hands clutching the rope in a white-knuckled grip. The kid is too young to die, barely a man, his voice still cracked for God's sake. He couldn’t even grow a beard yet. And he’s gone.

He pulls him, again, one harsh tug that gets him close enough that Arthur can get his hands on him. As soon as Arthur stretches to grab onto Ronny’s ankle, a shot rings out. He freezes stupidly, mentally trying to calculate if he’d gone out enough that the sniper could land a shot on him. “Arthur!” John urges, and he comes back to his senses. He isn’t shot, yet. He pulls Ronny, hauls him into a sitting position and slinging him over his shoulder in one swift movement. He turns and finally crawls back into safety.

He drops Ronny against the train, leaning on his hands and knees as he takes in a deep breath and lets himself sag onto the thick metal of the train wheel. He’s safe, for now.


End file.
